


Do You Step In Line Or Release the Glitch?

by LayALioness



Series: (belated) Bellarke Week! [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Met on the Ark, Guard Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke doesn't mean to become a revolutionary, and she doesn't mean to fall in love with a guard.</p><p>Ark AU, part 1 of (very belated) Bellarke Week!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Step In Line Or Release the Glitch?

**Author's Note:**

> title from Panic Switch by Silversun Pickups
> 
> nothing is wrong with the Ark, other than their outrageous child laws, which Clarke sets out to change.

Clarke doesn’t mean to become a revolutionary, but when she finds her best friend’s step-sister crying over the toilet bowl, clutching her stomach scared and desperate, it’s sort of hard to just walk away.

So she doesn’t. She holds Glass’s hand through it all—the planning, and the crying, and the morning sickness, and even when Luke gets scared and walks away, Clarke stays by her.

They collectively decide not to tell Wells—not because they don’t trust him, but because it’s only a matter of time before they’re found out, and they don’t want him dragged with them in case things go south.

And as far as rebellions go, Clarke thinks theirs is pretty mild; a few posters stuck to the hallways, and some forged paperwork at the clinic on her part, to get Glass the few prenatal vitamins she knows they can spare. It isn’t much, all things considered. But it’s enough to get them noticed.

People start talking about it pretty quickly; the vigilante, protesting the unlicensed-child law via graffiti on the walls. Gory images of fetuses, being stepped on like ants, with messages like YOU CAN’T OUTLAW PEOPLE, and SIBLINGS SHOULDN’T BE STORIES. It’s some of Clarke’s best work, to be honest, but she can’t exactly claim credit. People are noticing, and talking about it—that’s enough. That’s what they wanted.

But the Council decides it’s probably the parent of a hidden second child who’s behind the protests, and declare war. There’s a wave of surprise inspection throughout the Ark, rooms searched one by one, until _five_ second children are discovered in closets, and under beds like old toys or winter coats. Five sets of parents floated, five kids sent to the Sky Box, whose only crime was being born.

Clarke sits with Glass as she cries that night, and they almost call the whole thing off. But that would only let the Council think they’ve won, and they were right all along. So instead the girls slip on the black sweaters Glass managed to nab from the pile of shared hand-me-downs, grab a few posters and packets of tape, and slink out after curfew.

The Guard switched up their schedules when the posters started, but Luke slips Glass a copy of the night rounds each week. He’s not a bad guy, Clarke reminds herself, he’s just scared. As he should be. As _they_ should be, because if they’re discovered, Thelonious won’t go easy on his step-daughter, or his son’s best friend. He won’t want to be guilty of nepotism.

Times like these, Clarke wishes they could go to someone older. An adult, sure to be on their side, and maybe give them some direction that’s a little better than _tape these pictures to the walls and maybe someone will change something_. It’s always easier, being told what to do, so that if it doesn’t work or if something goes wrong, she won’t be to blame.

Abby would never agree with their cause, Clarke knows, so she isn’t an option. Glass’s mother wouldn’t know what to do, and Thelonious would have them brought up on charges. Jake would have taken their side, and helped them, she’s sure. But he’s gone, and has been for years, and so isn’t an option.

So she and Glass hold the posters firmly, ducking around corners and crouching in shadows and gritting their teeth. They have a new set of pictures tonight, with children lined up, heavy with chains, wearing locked boxes on their heads like helmets. WE’RE MORE THAN OUR PARENTS’ MISTAKES, reads a few. Others say BEING BORN IS NOT A CRIME. Clarke hates everything about the unlicensed-child law, but she’s pretty sure this part’s the worst. She slaps up each page with a little more spite than the last.

Glass meets her in one of the corridors in Factory Station, once they’ve finished, having separated to cover more ground quickly. According to Luke’s schedule, the guards should all be patrolling Agro and Mecha at the moment, so they head towards Alpha.

They’re in a hurry, so they don’t check before rounding the corner, and nearly run into a guard just a few yards away. He’s talking to a girl, hushed and just outside the cracked door of an apartment. Neither of them notice Clarke or Glass, so they double back quickly.

Clarke’s heart feels ready to burst from her chest, and Glass is visibly shaking beside her. _They can’t get caught_.

But there is no alternative. If they retrace their steps, they’ll run into the patrol officers coming from Mecha. If they keep going, they’re caught by the guard down the hall. Either way ends with them dragged off in handcuffs. _Unless…_

Clarke grabs Glass’s wrist. “There’s a maintenance closet just down the hall. I’ll distract the guard, and you go hide. When the coast is clear, head back home.”

Glass’s eyes go wide as Clarke takes her mask off. It’s from last year’s masquerade. She’d kept it, planning to paint it blue for this year’s, until the whole vigilante thing helped her find an even better use for it. She tucks it into Glass’s hands. “What are you going to do?” Glass whispers, frantic. Clarke gives a grim smile.

“Something stupid,” she says. “Hide and then run, got it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before turning to walk down the hall.

The guard sees her quickly this time, and the girl slips back into the apartment and shuts the door before Clarke can even glimpse her face. _They’ve had practice_ , she thinks.

The man himself is young, only a few years older than her, and fresh out of cadet training. He doesn’t seem angry or suspicious, just confused as he eyes Clarke with a frown. “What are you doing out after curfew?” he asks, and Clarke smirks. The expression feels shaky to her own mouth, but she hopes he believes it.

“You’re not the only one with a midnight tryst,” she says, and he frowns even deeper, glancing around the hall. She takes a moment to pray Glass is already in the closet.

“Where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, and Clarke makes a face.

“Why does everyone assume it’s a boy?” she asks, irritated. This isn’t part of the ruse, but it’s always annoyed her. Her mother, and Glass’s and even Glass always ask which boys she likes at school. She always avoids the question.

The guard’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile. “You’re right,” he nods. “Sorry. Where’s the girlfriend?”

“Home, probably,” Clarke shrugs, walking around him. Surely, it can’t be this easy. “I should be, too. Wouldn’t want to get caught after curfew.”

At that, the guard _does_ smile, and then coughs, like that might hide the grin. “No,” he agrees. “Wouldn’t want that. I’ll walk you.”

She doesn’t bother arguing, since at this point she’s fairly sure she’s pressing her luck, and anyway she’s supposed to draw him away so Glass can run home. So she lets him walk close to her side, and actively does not watch him from the corner of her eye. Even if he does have nice hair and freckles. His uniform shirt’s collar is twisted on one side, and she’s fighting the urge to reach out and fix it.

They pass a pair of guards just outside the entrance to Alpha, and the older of the two stops them. “Blake,” he nods, glancing at Clarke curiously. She does her best to look like she deserves to be there, and hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s hard, knowing that if they felt her fingertips, they’d come back sticky with guilt. “What’s going on?”

It would be so easy for him to turn her over. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t recognize her, which in itself is a little surprising, but she doesn’t want to question it. “She fell asleep at a friend’s house, sir,” her guard lies smoothly. “Just woke up. I’m making sure she gets home safe.”

The patrolman appraises them both before nodding and turning away with his partner. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye, and Blake doesn’t either. He grips Clarke’s elbow and tugs her along with a mixture of firmness and care. His hand is warm. She tries not to think about it, focusing on not tripping over her legs as he drags her.

Finally, he stops, and it takes Clarke a moment to realize they’re in front of her apartment door. She gapes up at him. “You knew who I was,” she accuses, and he smirks.

“You’re the Ark’s little princess,” Blake teases, “ _Everyone_ knows who you are.”

She shifts awkwardly, unsure what to say. He did her a favor tonight, but she’s pretty sure that’s only because she saw him flirting while on duty. Or maybe he wants something in return, but she’s not sure that’s any better. “Thanks,” she says without really meaning it.

Blake shrugs. “Don’t,” he says mildly. “I was just being a decent human being. Who am I to abandon a pretty girl in need?”

“Maybe you just wanted to see where I live,” she shoots back, pointedly ignoring the part where he just called her pretty. She’s pretty sure the guards in Factory Station don’t get many chances to visit Alpha. “Maybe you’re a snooper.”

“That must be it,” Blake agrees, turning. He gives a haphazard wave over his shoulder. “Goodnight, princess.”

Clarke slips inside without a word.

She goes to Wells’ before even breakfast, and he opens the door groggy and still in pajamas. She gives him a sloppy hug, and he isn’t even a little surprised when she heads straight for Glass’s room. She’s pretty sure Wells knows—if not about the protest, than about Glass being pregnant. He’s perceptive, and it’s sort of hard to hide things like morning sickness, and his two favorite people are Clarke and Glass, so he probably did some research or something at the beginning and has been patiently waiting for them to bring it up.

Clarke always feels a little guilty, shutting him out of things, but quickly reminds herself it’s for his own good.

She finds Glass safely asleep in her bed, and lays down beside her. She’s soft about it, but the mattress still moves, and Glass still blinks weakly, squinting in the sudden light. “You’re okay,” she sighs, relieved, patting Clarke’s face absently. Clearly she’s still half-asleep, and Clarke shrugs her off, amused.

“I’m okay,” she assures her, and then glances down where she knows her stomach is slightly swollen. “Are _you_ okay?”

Glass huffs. “I’m pregnant,” she says, petulant. “Not infirm. I’m _fine_. Well, hungry. But fine.” She pauses. “I also have to pee.”

Clarke considers telling Glass about the guard, but decides not to. It would probably just worry her—or she’d tease her insufferably—and neither option is very appealing.

So instead, she tells Wells.

They’re playing chess, and he’s winning, because she’s still thinking about the freckles on Blake’s stupid, pretty face.

“Checkmate,” Wells says, and Clarke sighs, reaching to start resetting the board. He stops her hand with an amused look. “I haven’t actually made a move for the last three turns,” he points out. “What’s going on with you?”

Clarke frowns down at the board in betrayal, but he’s right. She can’t believe she didn’t notice. “I met someone,” she admits, stifling a yawn. It’s true enough, and of all her possible confessions, it’s the one least likely to land anyone in jail.

Wells’s brows shoot up to his hairline, and Clarke tries not to feel offended by his surprise. “When?” he asks, and then “Who?”

“The other day,” Clarke says. “A guard.”

“What are they like?” Wells asks, and Clarke is filled with affection for her friend.

“ _He’s_ nice,” she grins. “Funny. _Hot_.”

Wells snorts and then hesitates. “And Glass?” he asks carefully. Clarke helps him reset the board.

She’s had a crush on Glass ever since she’d moved in with Wells next door. To be honest, that may have been part of the reason she was so quick to help her, when she found her crying in the bathroom.

Well, that, and the fact that she fucking _hates_ the unlicensed-child law.

Clarke shrugs. “I had to get over it sometime,” she points out. Even if Glass liked girls and boys, like Clarke, she’s pretty much in love with Luke. “Rematch?”

“Yeah, right,” Wells says amiably. “You’ll just spend the whole time fantasizing about your boyfriend.”

“I can multitask,” Clarke chirps, not bothering to correct him. “Do you have a date to the Unity Day dance?” she asks, nabbing his rook with her bishop. Wells flushes and moves a knight. Clarke _beams_ ; Wells _never_ blushes. “Looks like I’m not the only one holding out with the romance,” she says gleefully.

“Shut up,” Wells grumbles, stealing a pawn.

Blake finds her again the next night, right as she’s hanging up a poster in Agro. She painted it that morning; four unlicensed kids all growing like weeds around the flowery licensed one in the middle. On the bottom, it reads YOU CAN’T WEED US OUT. She’s flattening the corners, when he sidles up.

“You’re talented,” he says, staring at the image. Clarke jumps several inches, and considers how far she might get if she takes off running. She eyes his long legs, hidden by the uniform. Probably not very far.

Then she remembers she’s wearing her mask, and a different sweater, and has her hair piled up under one of Wells’ old hats. She tries to make her voice a little deeper so he won’t recognize it, and growls “Thanks.”

Blake looks down at her with a raised brow. “I know it’s you, princess,” he says, and Clarke sighs. He reaches out and tugs at a curl that must have fallen from her hat. “No one else has this color,” he says, soft.

“No date tonight?” she says sharply, pulling away so her hair falls from his grip. She mostly said it to remind herself, but Blake just stares at her, mildly amused.

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” he says, dropping his arm back to his side.

Clarke frowns. “Could have fooled me,” she mutters, and Blake grins.

“You’re jealous,” he says, pleased, and Clarke gapes. She’s confused by the fact that he hasn’t arrested her yet, and a little sleep deprived, and definitely _not_ jealous.

“I’m not,” she argues. “Are you going to arrest me?”

Blake raises both brows, this time. “Do you _want_ me to arrest you?”

She huffs. “You shouldn’t answer a question with another question,” she chides, and he grins.

“So did you make all of these?” He glances around at the rest of the corridor, filled with her posters, each one a little different. She shifts on her feet, anxious and a little self-conscious. She’s _proud_ of them, and of the cause and all the work she and Glass have put into it, but. It’s different, having an outsider’s perspective. She finds herself hoping he likes them, and is sort of impressed.

“Yeah,” she nods, and worries her lip. He’s still staring, now hyper-focused on the one in front of them.

“So,” he says, turning back to her. “Just to be clear, you don’t actually have a girlfriend in Factory?”

“Oh,” Clarke says, a little dumbly. “Uh, no. No girlfriend in Factory. Or anywhere else.” She’s suddenly very sure he’s going to kiss her, and she’s sort of looking forward to it. She hasn’t been kissed in a while, and she wants to. She _likes_ kissing.

But instead he just gives a warm smile and says, “Good to know.” Then he turns and nods his head to the west, towards Alpha. “I’ll walk you back.”

Clarke shakes her head, only a little disappointed; it’s probably best this way. She likes Blake, and kissing would just make everything more complicated. “I can get home by myself you know,” she says dryly.

“I don’t doubt your navigational skills,” Blake chirps, and she falls in step beside him. “I just wouldn’t want you to get bored on the way back.”

Clarke snorts. “Right. You’re such a good Samaritan.”

“I’m a fucking caregiver,” he agrees, and slips his hand in hers.

 

“So who’s the guy?” Raven asks, as Clarke stitches up her shoulder. She somehow managed to clip herself on the sharp end of a ladder, but Clarke didn’t ask for details; she knows better than that, by now. Wick is sitting on a stool in the corner of the clinic, spinning on the top when he thinks they aren’t looking.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clarke says primly, and Raven rolls her eyes. Clarke digs her needle in a little harder than is necessary and Raven winces, before glaring at her knowingly.

“The one that’s got you wearing Monty’s new soap,” Wick chirps helpfully, and Clarke shoots him a look. He pretends not to see, instead peeling at the flaky paint on the wall. They’re in what used to be the pediatric ward, but has since been expanded into a whole secondary clinic for Mecha Station. The perk of working in such a small clinic, besides the fact that Abby isn’t constantly hovering just behind her shoulder, is that Clarke gets to meet people like Raven and Wick.

She’d first met them a few months earlier, when Wick hobbled in, half slung over Raven’s shoulder. Apparently he’d walked across an ancient, corroded bridge on some dare. “I won the extra rations though,” he’d said happily as Clarke sewed him back up, and Raven called him an idiot with that angry-but-worried tone that means she actually cares. Now they have an on-going bet about who’ll end up with more stitches by the end of the year. They keep trying to bribe Clarke into giving them a few threads.

At the time, Clarke had thought they were dating. She learned she was wrong when Wick piggybacked Raven into the room, only to find Finn massaging Clarke’s shoulders. Finn Collins had been a semi-regular of hers for a couple weeks by then, finding excuses to drop by with gifts of protein bars, or colored pencils he’d traded for at the exchange. Clarke thought he was cute, and it was nice to be noticed, and she was thinking about asking him to dinner, when Raven showed up.

“Finn,” Wick said, tone clipped and a little harder than she’d ever heard him. Finn, for his part, looked paler than usual. Raven just grimaced.

“You know Wick?” Clarke asked Finn, trying not to feel awkward as everyone avoided looking at anyone else. “And Raven?”

“He should,” Raven said mildly. “We’re dating.”

Needless to say, Finn stopped visiting her after that, and she thought for sure she’d lost Raven and Wick too—until they limped in the week after, bickering away and trying to bribe her with earrings made of scrap metal, like nothing had happened.

Usually, Raven and Wick just banter their way through their time in the clinic, and Clarke can just listen and occasionally laugh, or offer some snide comment, while she takes care of whatever injuries they’ve managed to accrue. Today, though, they just stare at her pointedly, waiting for a response. She almost liked it better when they fought over her, like two parents in the midst of a divorce.

“There is a guard,” Clarke admits, and Raven says _ha!_ , while Wick just scrunches his nose in distaste.

“Really?” he says, “A _guard_? Way to be predictable, Griffin.”

Clarke just shrugs, and tapes up Raven’s arm. She doesn’t put any ointment on it, knowing she’ll want it to scar, so she can show it off.

“So what’s his name?” Wick asks. Raven rolls her eyes.

“Forget his name, what’s his dick size?” She waggles her brows, to let Clarke know she’s kidding. Maybe.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Wick asks, mildly amused. He’s spinning the stool again.

Raven waves a hand. “You aren’t capable of human things like _jealousy_ ,” she shrugs, and Wick blanches.

It’s times like these that Clarke’s pretty much positive they _are_ dating, and they’re just in denial about it.

“Right,” Wick decides, standing up. “I’m gonna go ahead and take my shattered robot heart back to work. Come get me when you’re all healed, or whatever.” He smacks a wet kiss to Raven’s head on his way out, and she flushes, but looks annoyed about it.

“Want to borrow some of my soap?” Clarke teases, and Raven makes a face.

“Oh hey,” Raven says, pointedly ignoring Clarke’s comment, “I made you this thing.” She hops down to rifle around in her bag, and pulls something out. It’s predictably made of scrap metal, but the edges have been sanded down smooth, and the welding is some of her best work. She hands it to Clarke. “Wick helped a little. Badly.”

It’s a mask, and covers Clarke’s face, down to the tip of her nose. They painted little swirls around the sides, in a shimmery pale blue. The paint isn’t the best quality, and it’s thinner in some places, but. Clarke chokes up a little anyway, and Raven huffs.

“Don’t even think about crying,” she demands hotly. Raven’s pretty much allergic to actual emotions.

Clarke nods and sets the mask down at her desk, searching through the mess of papers and stray folders. She learned quickly that her friendship with Raven would always be based on equal trade—she couldn’t give Raven one of the expensive protein bars with imitation chocolate, unless Raven gave her something in return. Usually it was some sort of jewelry made of reformed metal, or a scrap of red ribbon she’d found at the exchange. Lately, Clarke’s taken to giving Raven sketches, of comic book spaceships, or cyborgs from the old Earth movies. Sometimes they were of Wick, or Raven, herself.

Today’s is one of Raven, with dark bird feathers sprouting behind her ears and down her neck and shoulders. One eyebrow is cocked, daring someone to question them. It says _“Go on, ask about my wings.”_  She hands it over without a word, and Raven takes it carefully, putting it away in her bag. She doesn’t say thanks, or start crying.

“See you,” she shrugs. “Good luck with the whole love thing.”

“You’d know about that,” Clarke says.

“Screw you,” Raven shoots pleasantly without looking back.

The next time she sees Blake, she’s at the clinic again. It’s near the end of her shift, and it’s been a slow day, so she’s touching up the mural on the far wall. The paint is old and faded, but it used to be butterscotch yellow—some sort of brick road, from an old Earth film. There’s a man made of tin, and one made of straw, and an upright lion on walking arm-in-arm with a pretty girl in pigtails. Clarke hasn’t seen the movie, but she knows the story. Something about a wizard, and magic shoes. She loved it, as a child. Jake used to tell it, sat at the end of her bed. He’d do special voices for different characters, and make up the bits he forgot.

He died only a few years later, but by then she’d stopped begging for bedtime stories. She wishes now that she hadn’t. No one expects the husband of a doctor to die of the flu.

Blake walks in, bloody arm wrapped up in a towel. He looks exhausted, and a little pale, but his whole face brightens when she rushes forward to help him sit down. She tries not to think about that.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he teases, but she gets the feeling he really is surprised. He’d probably expected her to work in one of the larger, nicer clinics, like everybody else. She still has paint on her fingertips, and a little on the skin around her face from when she’d brush her hair back. He reaches up with his good arm, and grazes her cheek. His fingers come back stained yellow, and he grins.

“What did you do?” she asks, studying the open gash on his arm. It’s not as bad as the bloody towel made it look, but it’ll still need stitches.

“There was a little girl,” he sighs, frowning. He winces as she threads the needle through his skin, and she squeezes his thigh a little in comfort. “Her mom was pregnant, and they didn’t abort. They got floated, and the girl freaked out. She had a knife, somehow.” He shrugs, and swallows. “I don’t think she meant to actually hurt anyone—she was just angry, and scared.”

“What’s going to happen to her?” Clarke asks. She focuses on the stitches, so she doesn’t punch the wall.

Blake shrugs again. “They put her in lockup,” he says. “She’ll probably be there for years; she’s just a kid.” He sounds tired again, and resigned. It makes Clarke even angrier, and she stabs the needle through harshly. He hisses in pain.

“Sorry,” she says, wincing, but he reaches to squeeze the arm that’s on his leg, and meets her eye firmly.

“No, it’s good,” he says. “It’s good that you care, that you stand for something. That you’re trying to change that shitty law.”

“Yeah, a lot of good it’s done,” she mutters, thinking back to the five newly orphaned kids wasting away in the Sky Box, just because they were born.

“People like to forget,” Blake says, voice low. “When it isn’t affecting them, or their kids, or their loved ones. They don’t want to think about it. But you, and those posters—they _make_ them think about it. They make them uncomfortable, and mad. You do more good than you think.” The last words are a whisper, and Clarke almost cuts the wrong end of the thread. His face is thoughtful, and unreadable, and his thumb is drifting back and forth against her pulse. She fights a shiver.

“Want to go to the dance with me?” she asks, breathless, and then wants to melt into the floor. They’re having a serious conversation about a terrible law, and she asks him to some masquerade like a teenage girl with a crush.

Well. She _is_ a teenage girl with a crush. She wonders what he must think of her now; some sham vigilante, just a kid filled with ideals and hormones.

His face shutters, pained. “I can’t,” he says, letting go of her arm. She misses the weight of his hand there. “I’ll be working.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, voice hollow. As far as rejections go, it’s a pretty nice one. He’s letting her down easy, so she doesn’t have to feel embarrassed. She does, anyway.

“But I might see you there,” he adds quickly, and then smiles. “Save me a dance?”

Clarke nods so sharply it makes her head hurt, and he chuckles. “Okay,” she says, “Yeah. Yes.” She pauses, grinning cheekily. “I should warn you though, I’m kind of an awful dancer.” It’s absolutely true; mostly she likes to spin her friends around until they’re all too dizzy to move.

Blake grins warmly. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll lead.”

 

“Who are you looking for?” Wells asks, for the third time. He sounds more amused than anything, as he ladles up a cup of juice for his date, a pretty girl named Talia. Clarke shrugs, glancing obviously around the room, searching for his greased-back curls, and freckled skin. The gray of his uniform, pressed and starched and stiff against him. She gets the feeling that outside of those clothes, he looks warm and messy. She wants to see that side of him.

“Her guardsman,” Glass says happily. She was ecstatic when Clarke told her about Blake—ever since falling in love herself, Glass has been convinced it’s a cure-all. She’s wearing something that’s more like a smock than a dress, to hide her belly, but with her pale hair piled up in thick coils, she still looks stunning. “Blake,” she pops his name on the k, and Clarke flushes. She’s wearing her mask, so the blush isn’t that visible, but they can tell, anyway.

She saw Raven and Wick pretty quickly when they arrived at the dance, but they’re busy flirting pretty heavily while pretending to be other people. She’s pretty sure by now, they’re making out in some corner.

Glass finds Luke, in uniform by the exit, and drifts off to talk with him in hushed, pained voices. Heartbreak is written in both their faces, and Clarke has to look away. Wells and Talia are dancing, a little awkwardly, but with such clear fondness for each other that she has to grin. So Clarke wanders through the crowd, nodding along to the music, readjusting her mask as it slips down her nose.

She’s retying the leather straps, when she bumps into someone, and stumbles back. “Sorry,” she says, looking up to find a pretty brunette girl in a cheap white mask made of recycled paper. She smiles a little weakly, and Clarke beams back.

(So what if she let Monty and Jasper slip a little of their homebrew into her juice, earlier? She’s nearly eighteen, and it’s not like she’s wasted. And she’s been working hard lately, both at her miniscule revolution, and the clinic, so she deserves to get buzzed.)

“I’m Clarke,” she says brightly, and the girl’s smile thickens slowly.

“Octavia,” she chirps, loud so Clarke can hear her over the music. They’re both swaying to the beat a little, and so it’s easy for Clarke to grab her arm and twirl her around until she laughs.

“Which station are you from?” Clarke asks. Octavia is cute, and she has a nice laugh, and Clarke got all dressed up for Blake but if he’s not here to admire her efforts, she’s not about to let them go to waste.

“Uh,” Octavia falters a little, and Clarke has to steady her. “Factory.” Then she straightens a little, and smiles. “You should come by sometime, but only in the afternoon. My, uh, dad doesn’t like me having guests over, so it’ll have to be while he’s at work.”

“Sure,” Clarke grins, digging in her tiny bag—made up of glass and metal and wooden beads she’d painfully strung together one-by-one. It took months, and she’s proud of it—for a marker. She finds one that’s blue, and only a little dried out, and holds it out to Octavia, turning her arm up. “Write the address.”

She does, in sloppy penmanship like a kid’s, but Clarke finds it endearing. They dance some more, and Clarke introduces her to Monty and Jasper, who’s wearing his goggles like a mask and resembles a bug, and they pour some of their moonshine into her cup in greeting. Clarke introduces her to Raven and Wick next, who only bicker a little over who she’ll like more, and then wave lazily when they start to make out again. She tugs her along to Wells and Talia, who make polite small talk, and then Glass and Luke—but they’re still talking with bowed heads and low voices, so she doesn’t want to interrupt them.

As the dance is dying down, and the room begins to empty out, Blake appears at Octavia’s side. She and Clarke are doing some sort of old Earth dance move, where they stick their legs and arms out in turn and then shake them, and they’re both a little pink from the dancing and the liquor.

Blake tugs Octavia’s arm and says, “Time to go, O,” and Octavia grins up at him happily.

“Bell,” she says warmly, and Clarke’s frozen in her spot. He hasn’t noticed her, yet, too focused on the brunette. She feels her heart sink down to her stomach. _She’s the girl from the other night_ , she thinks, though of course she can’t be sure. All she remembers of that girl is the flash of brown hair and pale skin, but. Octavia fits that description.

“I made a friend,” Octavia says warmly, nodding to Clarke. “Actually, friends. But mostly Clarke.”

At that, Blake’s head snaps up, and his eyes lock on hers. He looks shocked, and not the good kind. Mostly, he looks nervous, and a little pained, and Clarke feels like an idiot. Just because she wasn’t his girlfriend, didn’t mean he didn’t want her to be. She doesn’t blame him; Octavia seems great.

“Clarke,” Blake says, distressed. He glances between her and Octavia, clearly fighting for words. “Octavia’s my neighbor,” he explains weakly. “I have to get her back before curfew.”

Octavia hums in agreement, and turns towards the door. His hand is still clamped around her arm, so he goes to follow, but hesitates and turns back to Clarke. He looks her up and down, lingering on the hem of her dress, shorter and nicer than anything he’s ever seen her in. It’s still old, still a hand-me-down, but it’s the same shade of blue as the paint on her mask, and her eyes, and it shows off her shoulders and collar bone in a way that makes her feel older, and more refined.

His free hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach out for her. He doesn’t. “You look,” he sighs, aggravated. “Nice,” he finishes, and then frowns. “I’ll see you.”

“See you,” Clarke echoes, and watches them leave.

She walks home alone, taking the pins out of her curls until they fall in strange knotted angles around her shoulders. She stays up all night, painting something new. Not a poster, or a protest. It’s the shadow of a boy, with messy hair and a crooked smile. Then she tears it into shreds.

Clarke almost doesn’t visit Octavia the next day, but ultimately decides to go. She waits until the afternoon, as promised, and then sticks the address, copied down onto a scrap of paper when she got home, in her pocket. Something about the way Octavia had said _I made a friend_ , makes her think she doesn’t have any. And it’d be pretty shitty, to just ignore her because of Blake.

She knocks on the door and waits quietly. There’s the creak of metal from inside, and then the sound of footsteps before finally the lock switches and the door cracks open. Octavia peeks a single eye out, and once she sees it’s Clarke, she steps back fully with a grin.

Once they’re inside, Octavia locks the door again, and says “That clear stuff gave me a headache when I woke up.” She glares at Clarke a little.

“That’s how you know it was good,” Clarke grins, repeating what Jasper had told her the first time she got a hangover. Octavia makes a face.

They play checkers with crudely, hand-carved pieces and a flat board drawn on the table. The apartment is small, and doesn’t look nearly large enough for two people, but Clarke doesn’t say anything. She’s not naïve; she knows about the large divides between the classes. She knows why Raven is adamant they only ever make fair trades.

“Where’s your mother?” she asks, around game four. Octavia shrugs with a frown.

“She died two years ago,” she says, with the practiced air of nonchalance that means she actually cares.

“My dad died when I was twelve,” Clarke shrugs back. “It gets easier, but it always sucks.” Octavia gives her a grim smile.

“Sometimes I forget we’re not the only ones in the dead parents club,” she says, moving her piece. Clarke kings her.

“We?” she asks, and Octavia knocks a few pieces over by accident.

“Me and my dad,” she explains, picking the chips up off the floor. “He’ll be home soon,” she says. “You should probably go.”

Clarke stands and Octavia walks her to the door, fiddling with her ratty sweater. “How do you know Bell?” she asks, turning the lock. Clarke frowns.

“Bell?”

“Bellamy,” Octavia amends. “My—neighbor. The guard.”

Clarke stares dumbly for a moment, unsure how she’s managed to never ask his first name before. “Oh.” She blinks, trying to come up with something believable, and then decides to just go with the truth. She’s kind of a terrible liar. “He caught me out after curfew once, and didn’t get me in trouble. Plus, I work at the clinic.”

“That must be so interesting,” Octavia gushes, the way she always seems to when Clarke mentions anything about her life. She’s already pumped Clarke for stories about her classes, and friends, and life in Alpha Station.

“I don’t get out much,” she’d explained with an embarrassed shrug.

“How old are you?” Clarke asks, curious. Octavia can’t be much younger than her, and she’s just one week away from eighteen.

“Seventeen,” Octavia flushes. “I turn eighteen in a month.” Clarke nods, and steps out into the hall.

“I’ll come back next week,” she promises, and Octavia grins.

“You better,” she demands, and then shuts the door. Clarke hears the lock click in place, and then metal on metal hinges.

Bellamy finds her that night, in her sweater and mask. He’s not in uniform, and his hair is just as messy as she’d imagined. He’s wearing a moth eaten Henley, and jeans a little too small. His shoes have a giant hole near the toes, but he doesn’t seem to care. He picks up a poster from the pile at her feet, and starts taping it up a few inches from the one she’s already working on.

She’s still annoyed with him, and she wants to tell him to leave, but Glass wasn’t feeling well, so it’s just Clarke tonight and she could use the help. So she says nothing.

Eventually he gets tired of the silence. “I’m sorry,” he says, sighing heavily and raking sticky fingers through his hair. The tape residue makes the curls stand up in awkward clumps, and she fights the urge to fix them. “Octavia’s a…family friend,” he says. “I’ve known her since she was born. She doesn’t really have anyone else, so…” he trails off, and Clarke has to basically cling to her anger, unwilling to let it go just yet.

“What about her dad?” she asks, and Bellamy frowns.

“Her, uh, _dad_ , isn’t home a whole lot,” he says, glaring at the wall. “I try to watch out for her.”

Clarke thinks back to Raven and Finn, neighbors and best friends since practically birth. They’d dated for years, and Raven was ready to _marry_ him by the time he found Clarke. She’s not sure she can handle being the other woman, again.

But. She’s allowed to have _friends_ , right? She hands him another poster, and he fights a smile. She’s not sure why he never wants to seem happy.

“You’re kind of an idiot,” she says, and he snorts.

“Kind of,” he agrees, and slaps some tape on her cheek.

The next day, she works at the clinic, and it’s so slow it’s _unbearable_. She’s run out of paints, and won’t be able to buy more until next week. She left her sketching paper at home, and eyes the nearby tablet. She knows all her mother’s access codes. She could look up Bellamy Blake. See where he lives, and who he has to look after him, and why it’s so hard for him to smile.

She doesn’t, but she does look up Octavia. She types in her name, and address, but nothing comes up. No medical history, which is strange since every Ark citizen has to have vaccinations twice a year. No birth certificate. No license.

Octavia, of Factory Station B-17, does not exist.

 _Then_ she looks up Bellamy Blake, and finds him listed under Octavia’s address. His mother, Aurora Blake, died two years earlier. Heart failure.

It all makes much more sense than it should, that Octavia is Bellamy’s sister. Clarke is still in a daze, when Wick finds her.

“Finn got arrested,” he says, somber. “He got caught on a spacewalk, and wasted two months of air.”

Clarke sucks in a breath instinctively. Wasting any resource on the Ark is a huge offense, and Finn is her age. He’ll have a week left, if he’s lucky. They’ll float him, for sure.

“Raven?” she asks, standing and putting her coat on the hook. Wick just shakes his head, so she follows him back.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, sitting down beside Raven on the sofa. It’s grown hard and lumpy with age, but she still sinks down a little. Raven is clutching a jar of clear liquid with white knuckles, and since Monty and Jasper are there, Clarke’s willing to bet it’s moonshine. She puts a hand on Raven’s knee.

“He’s such an idiot,” Raven says, voice harsh and strained, and she leans her head on Clarke’s shoulder. She looks angry and vicious and heart-wrenchingly _sad_. “But he doesn’t deserve to _die_.”

Clarke nods, and leans against Raven so they’re holding each other up like a capital A. Wick stays quiet, just behind Raven’s shoulder, just in case. He’s always sort of in her periphery, waiting to be needed.

Raven waits until the others are drunk and passed out, and then cries against Clarke, soaking through her sweater and swearing in harsh, broken syllables.

Finn is floated the day Clarke turns eighteen. She wakes up to an imitation cake from Abby, along with some new art supplies from Wells and hair ribbons from Glass. Raven and Wick forget, but she doesn’t blame them. She holds Raven’s hand as Finn is sentenced to death. Raven’s nails dig into her skin until she bleeds.

Raven and Finn’s mom hold a wake, and Clarke brings Octavia. She looks over the guard schedule from Luke, and finds Bellamy in Arrow Station.

“I’m going to a wake today,” she says, and he nods grimly.

“The spacewalker,” he guesses; it makes sense that he would have heard about it—that kind of crime is rare, these days.

Clarke nods. “Your sister’s coming with me,” she adds, and Bellamy goes pale.

“How long have you known,” he grits out.

“Not long,” Clarke says. “I figured it out last week. I won’t tell anyone.” He doesn’t look particularly reassured, so she reaches to grab his hands in hers. They’re cold, and shaking, and she presses them to her mouth to warm them up. The poorer stations don’t get as much heat as Alpha does.

“You know how I feel about the law,” she says softly, and he stares down at her, looking for all the world as though she’s just kicked him in the stomach. “I’ll keep your sister safe,” she swears. “I’ll keep you both safe.”

She’s not sure how she expected Bellamy to react, but she’s surprised when he snatches his hands back, and shoves her against the wall. His mouth hovers above her, breath warm and wet against her lips. “I’m the guard here, princess,” he growls. “I take care of what’s mine.”

He kisses her, rougher than she’s used to. Bruising. His lips are chapped, and they cut her own. His tongue is harsh on the roof of her mouth, and it’s messy, leaving spit on their chins and down her neck when he dips down to bite the skin there. He licks behind her ear and she whispers “Bellamy,” which makes him kiss her again.

He has his hands up beneath her shirt, against the skin of her back, and his thigh pressed up against hers so she can rub against it, when they hear a throat clear.

Bellamy pulls his mouth from hers, and Clarke feels a burst of pride at how perfectly _wrecked_ he looks, with heated eyes and a swollen mouth. His curls are all disheveled from her fingers, now sticky from his gel. They turn to see a pair of patrolmen, and Clarke blearily thinks they might be the same ones that caught them, that first night.

“Lieutenant Blake,” the older guard says with a smile. “Perhaps this sort of thing should be kept behind closed doors,” he suggests kindly. “Your shift did end several minutes ago.”

Bellamy nods a little and says “Thanks, Sergeant Miller,” hoarse and ragged, and then drags Clarke off without a word.

His apartment is empty, since Octavia is already at the wake, and maybe it’s sort of morbid and awful, but Clarke can only be grateful they have the space to themselves, as he takes his supervisor’s advice, and heaves her up against the closed door. They kiss, long enough for her to grow dizzy with need, and then she’s pawing at his uniform jacket and the dress shirt underneath. He has to let her down to unbutton them, and she takes that time to rip off her black funeral dress, leaving her only in her bra and underwear. They’re nothing special; old and a little worn, but Bellamy freezes at the sight, half-naked and eyes wide.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he huffs, and stumbles over his pants on his way over to her. She laughs at him, but it quickly tapers off to a moan when his hands skim up her sides and cup her breasts.

"Did you know it's my birthday?" she asks, whining a little when he pulls on her hair so her head tips back. He hums against the skin of her neck.

"Happy birthday," he growls, and her knees dip at the sound.

“Bell,” she breathes when he leans down to bite a bruise into her shoulder, “The bed,” she gasps, and he goes still under her hands.

She’s about to apologize, confused, when he turns his face into her neck and mumbles, “I’ve never, uh,” he sighs through his nose, tickling her skin. She waits for him to finish. “ _Done this_ ,” he admits, stroking a hand down her spine.

“What,” she says dumbly, still a little dazed from his hands and his mouth and _him_. He huffs and pulls away to look down at her.

“I’ve never _done this_ ,” he repeats, letting his eyes trail down her body, meaningfully.

“You’re a virgin,” she blurts, and he flushes. It’s a good look on him, but she knows he’s embarrassed, and she wants to fix that. He doesn’t have to be embarrassed, not about this, and not with her. She lets her hands graze up his arms, to his neck and finally the stubble of his jaw. “Because of Octavia?” she guesses.

“She was already alone all day while I worked,” he mumbles. “I’m the only one she has.”

“ _Were_ the only one she had,” Clarke amends, and kisses him. She sucks his lower lip until he groans into her mouth. “Don’t worry,” she breathes, trailing a hand down to cup him in his shorts. He bucks against her palm, and she grins. “I’ll lead.”

By the time they get to Raven’s apartment, almost everyone else has either fallen asleep, or left. Octavia has her head propped up in Monty’s lap, and is braiding Raven’s hair with tired, lazy fingers.

“How drunk are you?” Bellamy asks her, looking more amused than angry. The multiple orgasms seem to have improved his mood.

Octavia squints up at him and Clarke, taking in their tangled hair and messy, wrinkled clothes. She smirks, but then makes a face when she tries to stand and wobbles dangerously. “Maybe a lot,” she admits. “You might have to help me walk—my legs are stumbly.”

Bellamy grins and slings an arm around her, while Clarke bends to press a kiss to Raven’s cheek. “I love you,” she whispers, “And I will always choose you first.” It’s a sentiment from the night after Raven had walked in on Finn and Clarke—she’d strode into the clinic with a bottle of Monty’s spicy moonshine, and demanded Clarke finish it with her. They’d had an embarrassing heart-to-heart, and made out a little, and fallen asleep on one of the cots.

Raven grins sadly up at her, squeezing her hand. “I’d choose you, babe,” she slurs muzzily, and rolls closer to where Wick is snoring on the floor.

Clarke walks the Blake’s back to their apartment, and helps put Octavia to bed. Bellamy offers to walk her home, but she just smiles and kisses him, shaking her head. “I can take care of myself,” she reminds him. “I have excellent navigational skills.”

“I believe you,” he grins, pressing his nose against her cheek like a cat.

She’s just outside her apartment, when the next door over opens to reveal Wells, shaken and scared. “It’s Glass,” he says, and she rushes in after him.

Glass goes into labor on the floor of her bedroom, while Thelonious is in the conference room, and her mother is asleep in her bed. Wells found her, and helped as best he could, but even Clarke can only braid the hair back from her sweaty neck, and put a wet cloth on her heated skin, and help her count her breathing.

When Glass nearly passes out from the pain of her contractions, Clarke runs nextdoor to wake her mom.

“Glass is having a baby,” she says, breathing heavy from the fear and adrenaline, and Abby only shrugs on a housecoat and her boots before running over.

“Mom, I’m sorry,” Clarke starts, but Abby holds up a hand, taking Glass’s pulse and blood pressure.

“Later,” she bites out; she can’t be the worried, disappointed mother right now. She has to be the doctor, and save Glass’s life.

Eight and a half hours later, and Glass gives birth to a beautiful baby boy. She names him Gryphon—for the women that helped him survive. She hands him to Clarke, and she cries over his pudgy, pink face.

“I have to call Thelonious,” Abby sighs, exhausted and grim. The room goes quiet; even Gryphon just lays in his mother’s arms and stares silently. Wells grips Glass’s hand as she starts to cry.

Clarke stands and follows her mother out of the apartment. “You can’t let them float her,” she says, and Abby sighs.

“Clarke—”

“They’ll _float_ her, mom,” she hisses, and wipes at the tears brimming in her eyes.

“She broke the law, Clarke,” Abby says, resigned, and Clarke stares at her.

“To save her _baby_ ,” she argues. “Would you have aborted me, if I came before you filed the right fucking paperwork?”

“Watch your language,” Abby snaps, and Clarke scowls.

“Watch how _fucked up_ this is,” she snaps back. “She made a _mistake_ , mom. Just—help her. _Please_.”

Abby stares at her for a long moment, and then turns away. “I’ll call Thelonious,” she says. “I’ll do what I can.”

In the end, it seems Abby’s word goes a long way. She speaks with Thelonious, and then Sinclair and Marcus, and they manage to get all the proper forms filled out and signed before morning, so that Gryphon is a fully licensed citizen of the Ark, and so Glass has committed no crime.

She knows this is a fluke, that they can’t always slap a quick fix-it together, but. It’s a victory, and Clarke is giddy for the rest of the day.

She walks down to the Blake’s, probably too early, and still in her black dress, with wild hair. She hasn’t showered, so she probably smells like sex, and sweat, and childbirth, but. She has to tell _someone_ , and Glass is asleep with her son, and Wells, and their parents are still with the counsil.

Bellamy opens the door, wearing shabby pajama pants and nothing else, with squinty eyes and messy hair, and she’s pretty sure she loves him.

“My friend Glass had her baby,” Clarke says, in place of hello, and kisses him. He murmurs something into her mouth, but when she pulls away so he can repeat it, he just kisses her again.

“Now I won’t be able to stop,” he laughs when they finally break apart, and buries his face in her hair. She’s still in the hallway, and he’s still just inside the door, and it’s really too early for her to even be here, but she doesn’t care.

“Then don’t,” Clarke says, running a hand through his hair. He groans, and it vibrates against her skin.

“Ugh,” Octavia grunts from inside the room. “At least wait until I’m under the floor,” she huffs, and Bellamy laughs. But Clarke peeks over his shoulder to see her opening a hatch in the metal floor, and she feels nauseas.

“That’s where you live?” she asks meekly, walking inside so they can shut and lock the door.

“Only when there are inspections,” Octavia shrugs. Clarke shares a look with Bellamy.

“What if we could get Octavia licensed,” she muses. He narrows his eyes, about to argue—it’s dangerous, and the risks are too great, and it’s unheard of, and a million other reasons _not_ to, but.

But what if they _did it_?

“Yes,” Octavia says, one foot in the hole and one foot out. Her face is stern and serious, and even in her too-small, threadbare pajamas she looks like a warrior. “If you think you can— _yes_ , Bell. At least try.”

So Clarke goes to her mother for the second time. She tells her what she can, and when she’s sure Abby won’t bring it to the counsil until absolutely necessary, Clarke brings her to meet the Blake’s.

“You lived in the floor for _seventeen years_?” Abby asks, staring at Octavia’s hiding place in horror.

“Eighteen in two weeks,” Octavia chirps.

Bellamy grips Clarke’s hand the whole time, grinding bones against bones and it _hurts_ , but she doesn’t pull away. Abby eyes them both, but doesn’t say anything. The unlicensed teenager is a little more pressing than her daughter’s love life, at the moment.

“I can’t make any promises,” she says when they finally leave.

“I’m done with hiding,” Octavia declares, and Clarke thinks she’s probably the strongest girl she’s ever known.

On the walk back to their apartment, Abby glances at Clarke from the corner of her eye. “Any other confessions, while you seem to be in the mood?” she asks.

“I’m the vigilante,” Clarke says mildly, and Abby sighed.

“I figured as much,” she says. “You’ve been going through your paints faster than usual. I suppose it was about Glass, and Octavia?”

“It was about right and wrong,” Clarke shrugs. “The unlicensed child law is wrong, and people need to realize it.”

Abby sighs again, but she sounds almost _fond_. “I don’t suppose you could make this easier for me,” she muses.

“I have faith in you,” Clarke grins.

In the end, since Aurora had committed the actual crime of having a second child, and was already dead, the counsil decided Bellamy couldn’t be held accountable.

According to precedant though, Octavia would have to live in the Sky Box until she was eighteen, and then her case would be reviewed by the cousil—but they were hopeful. Unlicensed children were almost never floated, in the end.

Bellamy and Clarke were there to see her off, and she took her own arrest pretty well, all things considered.

“Bell, I lived _under the floor_ for seventeen years,” she says wryly, voice muffled as he clutches her to his chest. “I think I can handle a room for two weeks.”

Clarke started spending the nights with him, because he couldn’t sleep alone. They laid side by side in his bed, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness, and he’d tell her about growing up with a secret sister, and she’d tell him about her father, and they’d kiss slow and long until they fell asleep.

Abby invited him to dinner every other night.

“It’s weird,” he complained the first time, struggling with an old tie he nabbed from the laundry room. “Does she even _like_ me?”

“I think she wants to,” Clarke says, swatting his hand so she can correct the knot. “She’s trying, at least.” She grins. “Don’t worry, you’re very likable. Once you get past the grumpy old man thing.”

“I don’t have a grumpy old man thing,” Bellamy grumbles, and she laughs.

They’re there on Octavia’s eighteenth birthday, when she’s escorted out, and Bellamy scoops her up in his arms and whoops so loud it echoes down the hallway. Octavia laughs and throws a fist in the air, shouting “I’m back, bitches!”

Marcus only frowns a little.

Raven and Wick throw a party, which is to be expected; they’ll pretty much throw a party for anything. They’ll throw a party to celebrate parties.

Monty and Jasper bring a bottle of their first attempt at wine, which is horrific, but they all drink it anyway. Wick sets up some sort of sound system that plays the loudest old Earth music he can find in the archives. Octavia dances with a young cadet named Atom, and Bellamy just glowers from the sidelines, which is an improvement. Clarke doesn’t even have to hold him back.

“You owe me a dance,” she says breezily. She’s had a lot of the terrible wine, and her tongue is a little off. Bellamy smiles down at her fondly.

“I thought you were awful at dancing,” he teases, and takes her hand to spin her around.

“Oh, I am,” she says happily, moving his hand to her waist. She grips his shoulders and sways a little, but not too much or she’ll fall. He seems to catch on, and pulls her in a little tighter, so they’re not really dancing so much as hugging and shuffling in place.

“Who’s leading?” he asks, nipping at her ear until she laughs.

“Both of us,” she decides, a little breathless from his mouth, hot against her hairline. “Together.” She steps on his foot a little, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Together,” he agrees.


End file.
